


Housebreaking and Hooked Agrimony

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Ableism, Community: smallfandombang, F/M, House breaking, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love Triangles, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Here was what Irene knew about people who seemed to be perfect: They weren’t. If you kept all your hair neatly tied up in a bun and did your makeup just right and never allowed more emotion than was proper to shade your voice, you had something to hide. And Jerome had a far grander façade, which had to mean that he had a lot more to hide. He wasn’t like Irene; no bad genes to make up for. She had checked, stealing a hair from a comb he kept at his desk in order to keep his appearance oh-so-pristine. The 9.5 was real, so what wasn’t?Admittedly, it wasn’t really any of Irene’s business.Admittedly, breaking into his house to find out was probably not the best idea.But then, Irene admittedly had never been the most sensible person.





	

No man could possibly be as perfect as Jerome Morrow seemed to be. A 9.5 score genetically that actually followed through? Sure, Irene had heard of such people but she’d never met one, certainly never one who not only followed through on intelligence, strength and looks but also somehow maintained a positive and even friendly attitude like Jerome did. He never acted superior, instead always being so nice, even humble. And not just when he was dealing with Irene—she had often seen men with terrible tempers behave themselves for a pretty face. He was just as friendly with old Carol, a minor secretary in the public relations sector of Gattaca. And no one was able to get along with Carol. The only person he didn’t get along with was the mission director, and everyone knew where the fault lay there.

So he was nice and friendly and got along with everyone he met, building a stellar reputation, never had a bad day at the gym (a fact Irene particularly noticed since she nearly always did) and performed well enough on calculations and work that Director Josef practically worshipped him.

Here was what Irene knew about people who seemed to be perfect: They weren’t. If you kept all your hair neatly tied up in a bun and did your makeup just right and never allowed more emotion than was proper to shade your voice, you had something to hide. And Jerome had a far grander façade, which had to mean that he had a lot more to hide. He wasn’t like Irene; no bad genes to make up for. She had checked, stealing a hair from a comb he kept at his desk in order to keep his appearance oh-so-pristine. The 9.5 was real, so what wasn’t?

Admittedly, it wasn’t really any of Irene’s business.

Admittedly, breaking into his house to find out was probably not the best idea.

It was overly forward, for one thing, which Irene never was, no matter how much or little a man interested her. It was also illegal. But Irene knew she wouldn’t get caught. She had memorized Jerome’s work schedule and knew when he wouldn’t be home. And if she had no reason to be so interested in Jerome, well.

That was very true, but for some reason she was. And if he was hiding something like he seemed to be, then before she did something really stupid like asking him on a date, she had to know what.

And so, on a clear Wednesday morning in April, she called in sick to work, got her set of lock picks together (they would have been surprised about this hidden talent at Gattaca!) and headed out to Jerome’s address, which she had gotten from Gattaca’s employee files. She got mildly lost in his neighborhood but not for long. Once she figured out which house was his it was obviously his style, classy yet not too extravagant. She walked up the front steps, of which there were a lot, and rang the doorbell.

Obviously she didn’t want anyone to answer the door, but it was Jerome’s house and she didn’t know for certain he was out. He could well be staying home sick like she was. She rang the bell five times, leaving long intervals between each time. Finally, she let out a long sigh and took out her lock picks. He had to be at work. Which meant it was safe for her to get started.

It took her a good fifteen minutes to first dismantle Jerome’s security system and then pick his lock. He could afford the good stuff—no surprise there—but it still had nothing on Gattaca security. She would never have dared something like this at Gattaca. But here, off in the infuriatingly wealthy suburbs where the crime rate was still so low? For some reason even the sight of the nice houses egged her on. And of course Jerome thought his house was so safe, no doubt. She imagined the look on his face if he ever realized she’d done this, and it made her smile a secret smile. Poor straitlaced Jerome. (Though, she reminded herself sternly, there was no way he was as straitlaced as he seemed. That was the entire point.)

She opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind her. It was warmer inside, and she was half tempted to shrug off her jacket, but she kept it on. If she left something like that behind by accident it could get her in serious trouble.

The upper floor of the house seemed normal enough. There was a nice loveseat and a nice table, and down a hall she found a neat little bathroom with a cramped shower, meticulously clean. Jerome’s room, too, also unnervingly neat. Nothing out of place or odd. His clothes drawers were full of suits and white shirts and pants carefully ironed and folded. Nothing wrinkled or dirty, not even a hamper that she could find, which was a little odd. Books on physics and outer space mingled with papers and file folders on a corner desk, which made it slightly messier than the rest of the room, but still disgustingly professional. Irene shook her head and headed back out onto the initial landing she had found when she first entered the house. So the upper floor was a wash, as disappointingly perfectionist as the man himself. The lower floor still had definite possibilities.

She descended the spiral staircase (overly showy, typically valid) at a sedate pace, a little tired from her search of the upper floor but still determined. When she reached the bottom she came to a dead halt.

There was a man.

He was sitting in a comfortable looking reclining chair, reclined about halfway down, leaning back casually. One hand lay on the arm rest, open and relaxed. The other one was holding a small semi-automatic pistol. As Irene froze on the last step, he raised the hand slightly but didn’t quite point the gun at her, only made a gesture in her general direction and said, “Hands in the air, please.”

Slowly, Irene raised her hands above her head. They were empty—she wondered, if she were holding something heavy, if she’d dare to attempt an attack. Just punching the man or tackling him seemed foolhardy. She pressed her lips together and wished she had a weapon. At least she had the high ground. Theoretically, that was supposed to be an advantage, right?

“That’s good,” the man said. “Now, you may take the last step and get down on your knees. Don’t try anything,” he added, gesturing with the gun again.

Irene obeyed.

“All right then,” the man said. “Who the hell are you?”

Irene swallowed. “I’m a friend of Jerome’s,” she said coolly. If this was one of Jerome’s friends or acquaintances, that would make him think twice before pulling the trigger. On the other hand, that didn’t seem exactly likely. He hadn’t answered the door when she rang, a sign that he didn’t want to be seen here, and he was pointing a gun at her, which didn’t seem like Jerome’s style no matter how shady his perfection was. If he was, Jerome was hiding more than she’d guessed. “Who are you and what are you doing in his house?”

The man smiled. “That’s not really your business, is it?” He leaned forward in the seat, eyes bright, gun lowered to his lap. “Do you make a habit of breaking into people’s houses?” he asked. “I’ve always wanted to apprehend a robber…”

He had a slight British accent. Irene remembered, distantly, that Jerome came from the UK, though long enough ago that his own accent had entirely faded, unless he could simply fake it ridiculously well.

“I’m not a robber,” she said evenly. “I’m not dangerous. If you speak to Jerome I’m sure he’ll…”

Upstairs, the door opened. Footsteps approached the stairs.

The man said, “We’ll see about that.” He raised his voice. “It’s a woman, Jerome!”

“I’m coming!”

Irene kept her hands over her head (where they were going numb at this point) but turned her head just in time to see Jerome Morrow emerge from the spiral staircase. He paused there on the last step just like she had, though he seemed more surprised by her than intimidated by the other man. His eyes lingered on Irene for a long moment, though he didn’t meet her gaze, and then moved back to the other man. He cleared his throat. “I know her. You can put down the gun.”

The man put the gun down but only in his lap, and didn’t get up. “Fine, but who the hell is she? I didn’t know you were friends with housebreakers.”

Irene lowered her hands, keeping a close eye on the gun. She didn’t stand up yet.

Jerome said, “She’s Irene, my coworker. I’ve mentioned her before.”

“Irene? It does sound familiar.” The man leaned back, casual again. “All right, Irene. You can stand up and tell us why you decided to break and enter now.”

Irene stood. Having no real explanation, she turned to Jerome. He at least didn’t seem to want to shoot her. “Jerome, who is this?”

Jerome’s expression was cool. “What were you doing in my house, Irene?”

“I…” She took a step away from him. It brought her closer to the man in the chair, but somehow Jerome felt more dangerous right now. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

“Did someone send you?”

She shook her head. “No. I just…I was curious.”

“Curiosity usually stays within legal bounds,” the man in the chair said. “I think you owe Jerome at least an explanation.”

There was no diplomatic explanation really for picking someone’s lock and searching their house, no explanation that would make her sound innocent. Fine. “You’re too perfect,” Irene said. “I wanted to see what you were hiding.”

Jerome flinched.

Irene couldn’t help it. She broke into a smile. “Come on. You’re a man of mystery, Jerome. You can’t blame a woman for wondering.”

“But he can blame you for breaking the law,” the man in the chair said.

“Shut up, Eugene,” Jerome muttered.

So the man’s name was Eugene. That was…less threatening than Irene had expected, though perhaps anything was less threatening than anonymity.

“I admit it was a bad choice on my part,” Irene said. “But I was never going to steal anything or hurt anyone. I thought you would be out.”

“Eugene called me,” Jerome said. “Of course I came as fast as I could.”

Irene smiled thinly. “Well, he had it handled.”

A pause. Jerome’s weight shifted from foot to foot.

“Are you going to call the police?” Irene asked at last. She didn’t like to suggest the idea, but it was better to know at once, right? Anyways it wasn’t like they wouldn’t come up with the idea on their own, especially Eugene.

Jerome started and shook his head. “No.” He hesitated, glanced over at Eugene. “Uh, we should probably talk about this though.”

“Oh, are we inviting her to stay for lunch now?” Eugene asked.

Jerome shrugged. “Can you stay for lunch?” he asked Irene.

Considering this talk was probably the only way Irene was going to stop him from going to the authorities and accusing her as a criminal, she could hardly say no. “Lunch would be lovely.”

Jerome smiled a very fake smile. “Good. Now could you please just stay where you are for a minute?”

He walked off around the corner into a nearby room.

Eugene shifted in his seat, fingering the butt of his gun. Irene swallowed.

Jerome returned, now pushing a wheelchair in front of him. He wheeled it over to sit beside Eugene’s chair and said, “You ready?”

Eugene nodded briskly.

Jerome bent over the chair and hefted Eugene carefully from it into the wheelchair, setting him down so gently that the wheelchair didn’t move forward or backwards an inch. Eugene shifted and settled. Jerome turned back to Irene. “Our kitchen is right over here. It’s where we usually eat. The dining room is upstairs, but…” He shrugged.

He walked off towards the kitchen. Eugene wheeled close behind him.

Irene followed. “Wait, so Eugene’s…”

“Still carrying a gun?” Eugene said brightly. “In fact, I am.” It was sitting in his lap.

Irene decided, for now at least, not to ask any more questions.

Lunch was, as it turned out, leftover Chinese takeout.

“I’m sorry,” Jerome said, oddly embarrassed considering he was offering food to someone who broke into his house for no good reason. “We sometimes do cook, but last night neither of us really felt like it.”

So whoever this Eugene was, he’d been here last night too.

Eugene snorted. “It’s fine, Jerome. Just sit down.” He’d already started eating. The gun was still in his lap but he seemed to have mostly forgotten it, though he occasionally sent Irene a wary glance. He didn’t trust her. Well, he was probably right.

“You said you broke in because you thought I was too perfect and probably hiding something,” Jerome said, sitting down. So they were going to jump right into it.

Irene said, “Yes. I find perfect people suspicious.”

“And yet, here he is,” Eugene said. His lips twisted into a smirk. “A 9.5 who lives up to his genes. Can’t blame the girl for being curious, Jerome, you have to admit that’s pretty rare.” He took a sip of water and made a face. “Most valids are arrogant useless assholes.”

Jerome winced. Irene wondered whether it was at the insult towards valids (a class Irene herself inhabited, if not fully) or at the swearing. He said, “I’m hardly perfect.”

“Your DNA says otherwise,” Irene said. “As does your performance at work. You’re strong, fit, healthy, good natured, intelligent…” She shrugged. “I guess I should have known I wouldn’t get away with sneaking into your house.”

“Damn right,” Eugene said.

Irene shot him a dirty look.

“I’m not going to report this, Irene,” Jerome said. “You didn’t do any harm this time. Clearly you didn’t mean to rob me.” He took a bite of his food, chewed and swallowed. “I still don’t understand your interest in me. We don’t talk all that often, and I don’t think I’ve offended you.”

“I’m naturally curious.”

“You’re naturally a criminal,” Eugene said. “That much is clear. But curiosity doesn’t seem a very likely motive, does it?”

Jerome shook his head. “I said I wouldn’t report you. Not to the police or to anyone else.” He stared at Irene until their eyes met. “Who sent you?”

“Nobody sent me,” Irene said, frustrated by now. She’d been stupid but she wasn’t exactly an expert spy, as today’s incredible failure clearly showed.

“I want to let this go, but you need to tell me the truth,” Jerome said. He was sitting across the table from her (Eugene at the head like a monarch), and now he leaned forward. “I promise I will let this go if you can explain yourself.”

“I can’t,” Irene said stiffly. “I did something stupid. I am sorry.” She clenched her jaw. “I have no explanation to give.”

Jerome and Eugene traded looks.

“I suppose,” Eugene said. “We can give you a break, this time.” He took another sip of water. “We won’t tell anyone about this, and you won’t tell anyone about this. It will be our secret.” He smiled suddenly. “Funny little secret, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Irene said.

“You won’t tell anyone about breaking into our house,” Jerome said.

“Why should I?”

“Or anything you saw here.”

Irene stared at Jerome. He was acting so intent, more concerned at extracting this promise than he had been about Eugene’s gun or Irene sneaking in to begin with. But she had seen nothing strange here, really. “It’s understood,” she said, her mouth dry. She took a sip of water herself. (Eugene had offered wine but she had refused—no need to strain her reluctant hosts’ hospitality.)

“Don’t mention Eugene.”

Irene swallowed the water. Well, that went under the “anything she saw here” category, didn’t it? Interesting that he felt the need to specify. “I won’t.”

“If you talk about Eugene,” Jerome said. “I will report you. But I don’t want to.”

Was it the fact that Eugene had been carrying a gun that bothered them? Maybe they didn’t have a license. But Jerome looked too tense for that. Irene smiled. “I won’t. By the way, who is Eugene and what is he doing here?”

Eugene laughed. “It’s interrogation time now?”

“Well, you’ve had your turn,” Irene said.

“It’s our house,” Eugene said. “Not yours. We didn’t do anything to you.”

“Your house too?” Irene said. “So either you co-own it or you’ve lived here for quite a while.” She glanced over at Jerome. “You have enough money that you don’t need a roommate. Unless he’s a dependent?”

It could have been the truth. Maybe it still was. But by the way Eugene’s shoulders tensed, he at the very least took it as an insult. Well, good.

“Eugene and I are friends,” Jerome said. “Very good friends. I just don’t want him going through the rumor mill. You know how it is.”

Irene nodded slowly. “Sure.”

* * *

 

They let her go soon after lunch, though of course she didn’t go in to work. Showing up late after calling in sick (and Gattaca didn’t offer all that many sick days, assuming its elite employees wouldn’t need them) would be worse than not showing up at all, and Irene didn’t want to get into that kind of trouble when she’d only just barely avoided much worse.

She was lucky Jerome was a benevolent idiot and Eugene (seriously, who was he?) was willing to go along with him. She was lucky she hadn’t spent at least a day or so in a jail cell, possibly years of her life if it actually went to court. Breaking and entering was bad, and doing it to a fine white valid male in a good neighborhood was worse. She was lucky, and curiosity killed the cat, and she really needed to step back and allow Jerome Morrow to live his life.

Except.

Except.

EXCEPT.

Except she broke into Jerome’s house, stupid decision that it was, to prove, if only to herself, that he was up to something shady. And what with not calling the police on a break-in, his housemate having a gun and him making her promise (even blackmailing her) not to tell anyone about Eugene’s presence, it seemed to her that she had found exactly what she wanted. If all of that wasn’t proof that Jerome had something going on beyond his innocent appearance, she didn’t know what ever would be.

And she wanted to know more.

To that end, she observed Jerome very carefully over the next couple days. He seemed antsy when she was around, yet another proof that he was up to something—if anything he should have been gloating at holding her crime over her, a potential threat. He had all the power, and he was nervous just looking at her. Subtly nervous, but he avoided her as much as possible, and when they were trapped in the same room, his hands twitched until he thrust them in his pockets.

She had to admit the sight gave her pleasure not only because it was further evidence against his innocent façade. If she was honest with herself, she just liked seeing him fidget. Up until now he’d acted so perfect, even in their confrontation at his house. But with the pressure on, even if she didn’t understand what that pressure was fully, he was wavering.

She made a point of showing up in places where he was, of smiling at him guilelessly and occasionally, when no one else was looking, even winking at him and then pretending, when he stared, that she hadn’t.

It was all very amusing but on the other hand, it wasn’t really getting her anywhere. She wanted a chance to interrogate him more thoroughly on the subject of Eugene (at this point it was clear his threat of turning her in to the police was empty since it would mean disclosing something Jerome didn’t want to) but she could never get Jerome alone for more than a minute or so, after which time he would literally run away.

After a week of his avoidance, she overheard him talking to another coworker about an event this Friday—a concert everyone in their section was going to.

“You’ll show up, right?” the coworker asked.

“Sure.”

“Well, don’t act like it’s a given. You only show up every other time, you know. Sometimes I think you have a secret girlfriend or something and she’s keeping you very busy.” This accompanied by an eyebrow wiggle.

An awkward laugh. “Come on, you know I…”

The two walked out of earshot.

A secret girlfriend? Irene considered it for a moment before putting it aside. Gattaca certainly did subscribe to the stigma against gay couples, though once again unofficially. Officially and scientifically it didn’t even make sense, since gay couples were at least less likely to procreate by accident, the ultimate scandal and foolishness, and they were just as capable of obtaining a baby through artificial insemination. Of course, they might require outside help, but it always required outside help these days. Still, prejudice wasn’t logical. There weren’t a lot of people of color working at Gattaca either, and there was no justification for that.

Was Jerome gay? She’d never seen him come on to any of the men but if he was with Eugene he wouldn’t do that anyways…and if she thought about it he wasn’t one to flirt with the ladies much either. So that was a definite possibility. It would be scandalous, of course, if that got around the office. It might even be enough to hold him back from the mission he was currently slated for. Probably not, but maybe.

Of course, Irene would never use such information against him. But she couldn’t help but want to know.

All right. Apart from the idea that the unfamiliar coworker had placed in her head (thank you, John Doe), she now knew something quite useful: she knew exactly where Jerome Morrow would be tonight, at the concert she hadn’t been planning on attending. She could switch her plans and go and try to corner her, maybe asking him if she was right that he and Eugene were gay lovers. But he’d been doing a pretty good job of avoiding her so far.

And the last time she’d gotten any information out of him and Eugene had been at their house.

So that Friday she waited until the evening, late enough that she knew the concert had started, before calling Jerome’s number, also gotten from hacking the personnel files.

Of course, no one answered except an answering machine with Jerome’s voice. “Sorry I’m not at home right now, please leave a message after the tone. BEEEEEEEEEEP.”

She hung up and after a few minutes tried again. She repeated the process three times before actually leaving a message.

“Hello, this is Irene Cassini. I broke into your house the other day and I’m just calling to let you know that I’ll be dropping by in a couple minutes. I wanted to talk to Eugene. Hopefully—”

There was the sound of a click and then a British voice. “Dropping by in a couple minutes?”

“Hello, Eugene.” It was definitely him, which meant (after three tries) he didn’t answer the phone when he was home any more than he answered the door. Of course, she would have been an unfamiliar number, but still. He was hiding his presence there rather thoroughly. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yes, it’s been about a week.” Like they didn’t both know how long it had been. “What’s this about you dropping by?”

“I thought I might come by, since I don’t have anything else to do this evening.” She’d turned down three different dates, only one of which had been an offer to accompany her to the concert.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like to host house breakers. And Jerome is out.”

She smiled. He would hear it in her voice even if he couldn’t see it. “I know. I wanted to talk to you.”

A long pause. “Me?”

“Yes. I feel we have started our relationship on the wrong foot.”

“Relationship?” A laugh now, huffed out. “Look, I feel you’re being a little presumptuous here…”

“It’s for your own good,” Irene said.

Pause. “How is that?”

“I know you didn’t want it to get out that you were staying with Jerome,” Irene said. “I overheard something that made me think someone may suspect you.”

“Indeed?” And now she finally had his interest. “And what was that? You haven’t told anyone.” The last sentence was neither a question nor a statement. It was a command.

“I’ll tell you,” Irene said. “If I can come visit.”

“You minx,” Eugene said. He sighed. “Fine, if you want to come, come, but you’re going to have to pick the lock again. It’s not exactly easy for me to get upstairs.”

“It’s good practice,” Irene said.

Every break-in was easier the second time, and it was a lot easier to figure out Jerome Morrow’s security system the second time, that was for sure. She supposed she wouldn’t be arrested if it went off but she wasn’t exactly sure what form that would take—probably something that would involve a lot of noise—and so, regretting the effort, she shut it down just to be sure before picking the lock.

As she shut the door behind herself, she called out, “Eugene?”

“Come on down.”

So she did, this time slightly apprehensive as she hadn’t been last time, even though she had permission to be there as last time she hadn’t. She half expected to see Eugene still holding a gun at the bottom. But no. He was in a wheelchair, sitting up straight at the bottom, and when she arrived he raised an eyebrow and said, “You took your time.”

“I was dismantling your security.”

“I suppose these things require finesse,” Eugene said. He wheeled back to give her some space as she stepped out of the staircase. “So. What did you hear?”

“Aren’t you going to offer me wine this time?”

“Last time you didn’t even accept it.”

“Last time it wasn’t even noon. It’s about nine o’clock PM now, which is a fine time to drink wine,” Irene said. “Aren’t you a good host? Technically,” she added before Eugene could speak. “I was invited.”

Eugene shook his head, but he went into the kitchen and presently returned with a bottle and a wineglass. He poured until the glass was about two thirds full before handing it to Irene. “Satisfactory?”

“Quite.” Irene took a sip. “Won’t you join me?”

Eugene smiled with annoyance. “Jerome tells me I should lower my alcohol intake.”

“Really?” Irene swallowed a lot of wine at once, feeling rather spiteful about it somehow at the thought that Jerome might theoretically disapprove. “That is just the sort of thing he would say, though…”

“Bit of a stickler at times,” Eugene agreed. He twisted the bottle around and around in his hands for a moment before shrugging and putting it down on a table nearby. “Well, you have your wine now. Talk.”

“It isn’t that anyone has mentioned anything very concrete,” Irene hedged. She really had very little excuse to be here, but she’d be damned if she would let him throw her out. She was here to get information, but she would have to approach her objective carefully, very carefully.

But she’d have to give Eugene something. He was looking at her very skeptically right now, and would pretty soon be asking her to leave if she didn’t come up with something.

“It’s just gossip around the office,” Irene said.

“Gossip,” Eugene said. He frowned. “What kind?”

“Some people say Jerome must have a secret girlfriend because of how little he socializes,” Irene said. She neglected to mention the part where it was actually just one person, who had said it in front of Jerome himself. Technically she was still telling the truth, right?

Eugene stared at her for a minute and then laughed. “You call that…what, a lead?” He shook his head. “Do I look like a girlfriend?”

“Considering your living in the same house in secret, and considering that you acted fairly close the other day,” Irene said. “Yes.”

Eugene considered this statement for a moment before snorting. “All right then.”

“So you are dating?”

“I think by the time you’re living together with someone you’ve gone a bit beyond calling it dating.”

“You know what I mean.”

Eugene said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He leaned forward. “That’s why you really came, wasn’t it? You don’t have any news for us, you just want to stick your nose into other people’s business.” He flapped a hand at her. “Shoo.”

“You’re very rude.”

“You’re very rude. Insulting me and interrogating me in my own house…”

“It’s Jerome’s house,” Irene pointed out. “Technically not yours.”

Eugene gave her a long look, and then sighed. “You know what, I think I need wine after all.” He picked up the bottle and took a long, big swig straight from the neck, not bothering to fetch a glass. He let out a sigh of relief when he had swallowed and grinned at Irene almost conspiratorily. “Now. I am fortified. Tell me all your theories. Ask me all your questions.” He raised his right hand in the air. “I swear to tell lies, very good lies and nothing but lies…”

“Didn’t Jerome say you weren’t supposed to drink?” Irene said with a small smile.

“Fuck Jerome,” Eugene said emphatically.

Irene decided not to take this as evidence as to whether he was Jerome’s boyfriend or not. She took another drink of her own wine and said, “Well my first theory I just told you. But you know, if Jerome’s forcing you to hide your relationship, that’s really very selfish of him. Technically Gattaca has a non-discriminatory policy, and he’s been working there for some time now. You don’t have to be militant.”

“You’re telling me I deserve better?” Eugene said. “I thought there was nothing better than Jerome Morrow. You know, with that 9.5 and all.”

“People aren’t their genes,” Irene said. “If that’s the actual reason you’re with him, it’s pretty flimsy.” She had enough experience with valid assholes to verify that they were no better for their glittering validity. “Genes don’t mean anything if you can’t follow through. He seems great at work, but…” How had she wandered around to giving Jerome Morrow’s boyfriend relationship advice? Really, that had not been on the plans for the evening.

Eugene’s mood seemed to have dampened, probably because she’d just been trash talking his boyfriend.

“I’m just saying he shouldn’t be ashamed of you,” she said quickly, unsure why she suddenly felt very sorry. “Even if you’re a man, or invalid.”

“What makes you think I’m invalid?” Eugene said. He followed her gaze to his legs and said, “Oh, those. I used to be able to walk, you know.”

“Really?”

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

Irene accepted that much. She wanted to know Jerome and Eugene’s secrets, but some things were a matter of privacy that even she knew to respect.

“And I’m not dating him,” Eugene said. “We’re both very single men who happen to live together. It saves us both money and I suppose it’s good company. Is that not interesting enough for you?”

Irene shrugged. If that was all there was to it, why was Jerome acting so jumpy? But she didn’t ask.

“You and your skeptical face,” Eugene muttered.

“It is your choice if you want to lie to me.”

“Damn right it is,” Eugene said. “Do you want me to top off your wine?”

* * *

 

In the end she spent another couple hours there, talking to Eugene at first in an attempt to interrogate him about Jerome and then about other, less tense subjects. Eugene’s taste in wine, and his past experiences—his first hangover, Jerome’s stodgy ban, a lot of complaints about Jerome that gave Irene pretty much no information but a sense of validation for her own annoyance. Irene in turn ended up telling Eugene about Director Josef’s obnoxiously refusing to give her important assignments, “Probably because of my heart condition.”

“What, because you aren’t a perfect valid? You can’t say everyone at Gattaca is as elite as Jerome.” Eugene frowned.

“Yes, but we’re supposed to be.”

“You’re hardly an invalid, dear.”

Irene vaguely resented the “dear.” It could have been an endearment—heck, it didn’t even sound bad in Eugene’s light British accent—but it was still condescending. “It’s probably partly because I’m a woman too,” she said with a polite smile. Which was probably one reason Eugene was being such a jerk too.

“Ooh,” Eugene said with a wince. “Well either way, I’m terribly sorry.”

Irene shrugged. It was life.

She left before Jerome got back because it was for the best. As the evening passed on Eugene had grown more and more relaxed, but Jerome had been so nervous at work he would probably explode. Eugene scoffed at this and said it would be good to give Jerome a scare on occasion—made life more interesting—and she should stay longer, which Irene thought either showed that he had grown comfortable with her after talking, which could only be good considering he owned a gun and information she wanted, or showed that he was very drunk.

Both, she decided, as he waved with a lazy grin on his face as she mounted the stairs. Definitely both.

She wondered how he would explain her visit to Jerome, whether he would make it sound casual or work on Jerome’s paranoia a little more. Thinking of the latter made a smile rise to her lips as she drove home.

The next week at work she judged by Jerome’s behavior: Eugene had given him the sensationalist version. He kept on eyeing her, not even looking away when she stared back now. It was getting a little creepy, but it ended soon enough—he cornered her at lunch time.

“You’re free tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. No one ever had any plans on Mondays, and Irene was no exception to that law.

He stared at her just as intently as he had done earlier. It wasn’t an admiring sort of stare, and it wasn’t any more comfortable close up. “Would you like to get dinner.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Where would we go?” His house again? He’d phrased it like a date and it probably wouldn’t count as a date if Eugene was there, but she wouldn’t mind seeing Eugene again. Probably he’d be able to alleviate at least a little of this tension, calm Jerome down a little, get him to relax—unless, of course, something had happened since her last visit and Eugene had gone insane too.

“Basil’s tends to be less crowded on Mondays,” Jerome said. “I obtained a reservation for tonight on Saturday.”

“Well. That’s a little presumptuous.” Not to mention very quick. Usually the waitlist at Basil’s, like most of the classier restaurants in the area, could be as long as a month. Then again, maybe being Jerome Morrow, Olympic athlete and valid enough to make you gag, opened a few doors. (Who was she kidding—of course it did.)

“If you don’t like the food we can go to a bar and get a private room,” Jerome said. “Either way, I need a place with privacy.”

Irene grimaced. A private table at Basil’s meant the occupants had business to discuss or possibly just wanted to be alone. A private room at the local bars meant you were either doing drugs or having sex. “Basil’s is fine. I’m surprised you managed a reservation, though.”

Jerome shrugged. “It’s easy when you know how.”

It occurred to Irene as he walked away that she’d acted exactly like Basil, accepting his date on short notice. Apparently good genes and a nice face worked on her too.

He agreed to pick her up at her house after work (the reservation was for somewhat late) and she took the opportunity to change into something slightly fancier and yet less formal at the same time. Not exactly the kind of evening gown she would wear to company events, but something…nice.

Looking herself over in the mirror, she wondered if Eugene would have appreciated her hair down like this. Not that she knew anything about his preferences. But seeing her in this tight little navy dress with no cleavage but a nice attention to curves, she wondered if he would have still been so condescending as to say “dear” and not mean it.

Well, Jerome probably wouldn’t even notice anything different with the mood he was in. But the people at the restaurant would see her, and some of them might even know her. So she had to dress accordingly.

When he picked her up, it was as she expected. He barely looked her over, and certainly didn’t comment on anything. In fact, he barely spoke a word for the whole drive, except to ask her how her day had been (like he didn’t already know, like he hadn’t been there for it) and say his own day had been fine, which was clearly a lie.

At Basil’s he’d somehow obtained not just a table but a table near the window. Irene gave him a long look. Was it any wonder that she wanted to interrogate him? Waiting lists for tables like these, now. Those could be even longer than the normal tables.

When a waiter arrived with a bread basket, Jerome even had his order ready despite the fact that they didn’t even have menus yet. Lasagna. The waiter turned to Irene, clearly expecting her to be ready as well.

Irene smiled. She could bluff. “Do you have cod on your menu?”

“Yes, ma’am, the cod filet.”

“I’ll take it.”

Jerome also ordered water instead of wine, which did seem to fit with what Eugene had been telling her about him. Irene followed his lead.

When the waiter was gone, Jerome said, “You know this is more of an Italian place than a seafood place.”

“You know I far prefer seafood to Italian,” Irene said.

“I’m sorry, would you rather be somewhere else?”

“I’ve never been to Basil’s before,” Irene said. She didn’t have nearly as much influence, clearly. “It’s something of a novelty.” She picked up a piece of bread and broke it open. As she began to spread butter on one side (thin, very thin, but the butter looked too good to resist—she didn’t know how butter could be high class but somehow it managed), she asked, “Why did you ask me here?”

Jerome picked up a roll too, but he just put it down on the small plate in front of him. “Why do you think?”

“I can’t say,” Irene said. “You’ve never seemed to admire me all that much before. Now it seems your knees go weak every time you see me.”

Jerome peeled off some of the crust of the bread, put it in his mouth and chewed it.

“Not that it’s not flattering,” Irene said, lowering her eyelids.

“Stop playing games,” Jerome said. “Are you going to tell someone about Eugene?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Are you?” Jerome repeated. He was practically growling, his hands flat on the surface of the table, pressing down hard.

“Well,” Irene said. “No.”

Jerome relaxed, but only slightly. In a low voice, he said, “Why are you harassing Eugene?”

“I think Eugene can defend himself well enough,” Irene said.

“You broke into our house. You terrified him,” Jerome said. “He called me for help and that’s not something he does. He’s never done that before.” He bit savagely into his roll.

Irene, who had finished buttering her own bread, put her knife down. “Well, by the time you got there, it seems to me he had the situation well under control.”

“I didn’t even know there was a gun in the house.” Jerome frowned. “I don’t even know why there was a gun in the house.”

“He seems to know how to use it.”

“He shouldn’t have to use it. He shouldn’t have to be afraid in his own damn…” Jerome blew out a breath. “You’ve apologized for breaking in but why did you go back?”

“Didn’t Eugene explain it to you?”

“No. When I asked he grew very quiet,” Jerome said. “What did you say to him?”

That…made very little sense. Admittedly Eugene had been delighted at the idea of freaking Jerome out but it seemed odd for him to not explain his and Irene’s conversation if that was the case. Mentioning how she had manipulated her way in and how she had hinted at other people’s knowledge (heck, that could even be construed as a threat) would align with that goal very well, and Eugene had not seemed to be taking the idea of worrying Jerome too seriously. And Jerome was truly very worried, that much was clear just from the circumstances, let alone the look on his face.

Irene was half tempted to describe her conversation with Eugene in detail, to prove there had been no harm in it, though perhaps a certain amount of arguing. But then. Eugene probably had a reason he didn’t want to talk to Jerome about it, even if she couldn’t imagine what it was, and if he chose to remain silent, perhaps it was best for Irene to follow suit.

It wasn’t like she understood anything Eugene (or Jerome for that matter) did anyways.

“This and that,” she said airily. “The weather. The news.” She bit into her bread. Jerome was still looking skeptical. “It was a social call.”

Jerome said, “You and Eugene don’t even know each other.”

“It’s a bit rude to describe my own relationships to me.”

“Irene, please.” He always called her by her first name. It was presumptuous—but then again, she called him Jerome in her head and they both called Eugene by his first name too, though to be fair she had no idea what his last name was. “You’ve only seen him twice. And since the first time, he’s been acting strangely.”

“I cannot help that.”

Jerome swallowed although he wasn’t eating anything right now. “I know you don’t like me very much. You don’t think I earned my position fairly. But if you have some kind of grudge, take it out on me, not him.”

Irene said, “I don’t have a grudge against you.”

“You broke into my house, Irene.”

“Yes. But that wasn’t because I don’t like you,” Irene said. “Actually.” Was she really going to say this? Perhaps it was better just to be done with it. “I like you very much.”

Jerome paused.

“Why do you think I was so curious about you?” Irene asked. “I mean, to anyone you would look suspicious, but no one else pays attention. I find you interesting.”

The waiter brought them their water. Jerome took a large gulp of his while Irene placed her straw in but waited for Jerome’s response.

“Your interest to me should not extend to Eugene,” he said finally.

“Really? A pretty girl tells you she likes you and that’s your response?”

Jerome said, “It’s not that I’m not interested…”

“He has a secret,” Irene said. “What are you protecting him from that’s so important? Why can’t anyone know about him? Are people looking for him?” She thought of the cool way he’d fondled a gun the first time they met and shuddered slightly. “Does he have enemies?”

“Maybe,” Jerome hedged.

Irene frowned.

She liked to believe she lived in a civilized world. It had its problems—racism and genoism and sexism being the most obvious, bureaucratic inefficiency and the feeling of an overly cold façade coming close behind—but overall you knew the government and the system would keep you safe and preserve your way of life. Perhaps she had broken the status quo by breaking into Jerome’s house, but that had been just a bit of rebellious fun, and she’d never considered herself really dangerous, more the futile rebel against the larger system.

Guns and desperate secrets and the half panicked look in Jerome’s eyes every time they met, and Eugene having some mysterious enemy…these things didn’t fit into the neat world of Gattaca, the neat world of modernity that had always enveloped Irene ever since she stopped being a little girl who believed there might be danger behind every corner, monsters waiting to swallow her up every time she closed her eyes.

Maybe this was the world Eugene and Jerome still lived in. Maybe it had been cruel of her to play games with Jerome.

“You two are really in danger,” she said. It was a question, really, and she wanted Jerome to tell her she was wrong, there wasn’t any real danger, none at all.

Instead, he just picked up a napkin and mechanically wiped off the edge of the wineglass where he’d drank. A neat freak even at a moment like this.

She licked her lips, and asked a question that had been itching at her for a while now, but now actually seemed relevant. “Would this have anything to do with how Eugene lost the use of his legs?”

“That was a car accident,” Jerome said curtly.

Irene raised her eyebrows and wondered who had been at the wheel.

Their meal arrived surprisingly soon. Jerome began to eat his lasagna with surprising gusto but Irene had lost her appetite. She said as much and got to her feet. “I think I will go home,” she said. “Don’t worry, I can call myself a cab. Sorry to leave you with the check.”

“Are you sure?” Jerome said.

Irene smiled with stiff reassurance. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about Eugene.” And then she did something that was maybe a little stupid by leaning forward and kissing his cheek.

She left quickly after that, unsure how he would take it. A flirtation, a reassurance, or a sign of control? One action could be a lot of different things. She wasn’t entirely sure how she had meant it either.

Until now she had only been amused and curious at Jerome’s obsessive secrecy about Eugene. Tonight as she tried to go to sleep she wondered if the two of them had been hurt before and if so, how badly.

* * *

 

Irene had resolved herself to forget about Eugene and Jerome after that night. Clearly they didn’t want her involved in their life together and if she got involved anyways she might only end up causing trouble. Moreover Jerome’s attitude was…at best, intimidating. She didn’t often get intimidated by domineering men. No, it was rather the fact that he was afraid of her that made her feel a bit afraid of herself, wonder what power she actually held over them.

But on Tuesday, only a day after her dinner with Jerome, she got a call in the middle of the afternoon. On her work phone, no less, and a number she didn’t know. She picked up, and the greeting was Eugene’s voice.

“This isn’t Jerome’s number,” she said.

“I have a cell phone. Like most people,” Eugene said.

“Did Jerome buy it for you?”

“Believe it or not, he isn’t actually my sugar daddy.”

Irene huffed out a laugh. “Why are you calling?”

“I heard your date with Jerome last night didn’t go as well as planned,” Eugene said.

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Call it whatever you want. We have almost an entire cod in our refrigerator now and neither of us even likes fish.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. You can throw it out…”

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight and finish it.”

Irene blinked. She’d been almost certain they were trying to drive her away, and Jerome hadn’t exactly been acting inviting today either, avoiding her as much as had become the norm for him. “I don’t think Jerome would like that,” she said carefully. Unless she’d been getting very much the wrong impression from him, he was glad to have her gone.

“It’s not Jerome inviting you.”

“It’s his house.”

A noise of frustration. “Yes, well, I hardly ever leave it and we don’t exactly get a lot of company. If you want me to ask his permission…”

“Of course not,” Irene said hurriedly. She was remembering now—yes, there had been a sense of camaraderie between them the other night. Jerome had made her forget, or believe she had imagined it. But he had liked talking to her. And she had liked talking to him. Maybe there hadn’t been so much harm in it after all.

“Please, come over,” Eugene said. His voice was like a breath in her ear now. “Otherwise we’ll just get stuck with a lot of rotting cod.”

“Well. If you need my help, I cannot refuse,” Irene said.

“Good. Dinner’s at six.”

She wore another casual but nice dress. Usually she didn’t go out this much during the week. The usual did seem to be going out the window lately, though, and if it meant falling into Jerome and Eugene’s orbit, she didn’t really mind.

Jerome answered the door when she arrived, for once knocking. He seemed not particularly happy to see her there, though that was hardly a surprise. But he took her thin jacket and hung it up in the closet, which was also something that hadn’t happened before. It looked stranded there, a sole female coat among myriad men’s plaid or gray or black jackets. Her jacket was black too, but softer and slimmer and differently cut. She wondered if the jackets it brushed against belonged to Eugene or to Jerome.

Eugene was downstairs as always, and he greeted her more enthusiastically, actually opening his arms for an embrace she willingly gave him. And then they all processed into the kitchen, and Jerome microwaved the cod. Jerome and Eugene, in contrast, had boiled themselves some noodles and were having it with canned tomato sauce. Irene had to shake her head at the contrast between this and Basil’s lasagna from the night before. At least they were trying.

“Tell me about your day, Miss Cassini,” Eugene said with a grin.

“Since when do you call me Miss Cassini?”

“Oh, do we have a precedent yet?”

“If you’re going to call me Miss Cassini you’ll have to actually tell me your last name so I can reciprocate,” Irene said.

Eugene was silent for a long minute. He was still smiling but his eyes were fixed on some point on the wall behind Irene. Jerome glanced down at him worriedly. He put a hand on Eugene’s shoulder, which seemed to break the spell because Eugene immediately started.

“Ah, sorry. Freeman,” he told Irene. “Eugene Freeman.”

“Mr. Freeman,” Irene said.

Eugene made a face. “Eugene.”

“Then, Irene.”

“I think I can handle that.”

The cod, even a day old and warmed up, was still delicious, just the right texture and excellently flavored. It had a hint of lemon about it. Irene tried to eat slowly and nicely and eventually gave up when Jerome started making fun of Eugene for slurping his noodles.

There was no wine. (Irene wondered if that was Jerome’s influence.)

“I’ve sent in a request for a raise to the mission director,” Irene said.

“Oh yeah. Good luck with that,” Jerome said with a snort. Apparently all boundaries fell when faced with a bastard of the mission director’s level. “Even I can’t…”

“Are you saying you’re better at your job than Irene or that you have better genes?” Eugene interrupted.

Jerome said, “What?”

“With the ‘even I’. I mean, it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Your genes are much better than hers, though I can’t say how good she is at her job.”

“I’m good,” Irene said.

“She’s good,” Jerome echoed. “I didn’t mean…”

“Ttt. You aren’t supposed to know your coworkers’ genetic codes, Jerome,” Eugene said, tapping his fork on his plate. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Like everyone doesn’t know mine.”

“That’s different. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You’re too damn cocky,” Jerome muttered.

Irene took another bite of cod. “So what have you two been doing?”

“I read a newspaper,” Eugene said. “So that was thrilling. Do you know how close we are to war with Russia? There was another crisis in…”

And it was current events for the rest of dinner.

It was probably for the best. There were a lot of questions stirring on the tip of Irene’s tongue, generally revolving around what Eugene was doing hiding out in Jerome’s house and how they knew each other, that hadn’t quite been extinguished by the events of last night. But she at least thought herself tactful enough not to ask them now, and she wanted to be as tactful as she believed she could be.

She left fairly early after dinner. Although Eugene was very hospitable and Jerome didn’t seem to actively mind her being there, it was still awkward. What was she doing there, anyhow?

Jerome walked her to her car.

“Do you know why he asked me over?” she asked.

“Who knows why Eugene does anything?” Jerome answered.

She thought, Jerome knew a lot better than she did. He knew Eugene’s secrets, things about Eugene that Irene could only ever guess at and even that only vaguely. But perhaps in the end she did know why Eugene had asked her over, or at least guess at it.

He seemed lonely.

So when he called her up again and asked her to come over for dinner again next week, she accepted again. And the week after that, and the week after that. When he asked her, one weekend, to come over for a game night he had spontaneously decided to hold with Jerome, she accepted again. They slowly settled into a routine: Irene came over to visit about twice a week. If Jerome wasn’t home, she would pick the lock so Eugene wouldn’t have to wait up the stairs to buzz her in or open the door for her. She got a lot of practice in lock picking that way.

When Jerome was home, he would awkwardly converse with Irene and pretend he was fine with her. At work, he began to stop avoiding her, and even occasionally would stop by her desk to say hello or ask if Eugene had invited her over for sometime soon since Eugene still never bothered to tell Jerome she would be coming until about ten minutes ahead of time. He still often seemed on edge, but Irene decided that might just be his natural state once you got past his poker face façade. She didn’t mind it. It was better than forced indifference.

As for Eugene’s secrets, Irene was still miles away.

She would still ask questions sometimes. But more and more, conversation turned to current events and business gossip. Sometimes Irene found herself talking about her past, her parents who wanted one daughter, just one, and still were disappointed about how she turned out in comparison to her brothers. Her brothers who were older than her and barely bothered to stay in contact anymore. About how she’d stumbled into Gattaca hoping that she’d be able to make her family finally proud enough of her, and how to this day they still only asked about her salary. Which, of course, wasn’t high enough.

Jerome and Eugene didn’t talk about their families. But they would nod sympathetically, and occasionally interject with comments. Jerome was very sympathetic about her brother problems, although when she asked he muttered that he was an only child. Eugene, on the other hand, would laugh cynically when she talked about familial expectations and how hard they were to meet, but she knew better than to ask about his background. Still, it might perhaps be a clue.

She hadn’t been depending entirely on Jerome and Eugene providing her with answers about their secrets. She’d done some research. There were a lot of news articles out there about Jerome Morrow and his Olympic silver, but none of them mentioned anyone named Eugene Freeman, or Eugene, or Freeman. She found out that Eugene was actually Jerome’s middle name which…certainly seemed suspect…but didn’t really help her any way. It could be a coincidence. Irene tried to believe Eugene wasn’t deceiving her about something as basic as his name, but could she blame him if he was? If they were in the kind of trouble that Jerome had implied, she wouldn’t go around giving her name around to strangers either.

On a whim, she’d searched the Gattaca database for people named Eugene and Freeman with sparse results. The only Eugene was once again Jerome’s middle name, and there was one Freeman: a janitor named Vincent Freeman who had worked at Gattaca a few years ago before moving on. Large glasses and light, messy hair. He looked nothing like Eugene, though he did look oddly familiar. She must have seen him around back in his janitor days and forgotten about it; though she was loath to admit it, she often acted like the janitors were basically furniture.

There was one other avenue of research she pursued, though she would have denied it if either Eugene or Jerome had asked. Perhaps it was nothing compared to breaking into their house, but it was still illegal, and she was pretty sure they would jump down her throat if they knew.

What she did was she found Eugene’s bedroom and, while he was in the bathroom, she took a couple hairs off his pillow. And then she took the hairs to a DNA analyzing facility.

Unfortunately, it turned out she must have somehow ended up with hairs belonging to Jerome instead, because she came up with his results. She could have made a big deal out of finding them on Eugene’s pillow, but she was sure he helped Eugene into bed sometimes and she doubted Eugene washed his pillow all that often. So it was another dead end, and she was too embarrassed to try again.

So passed another two months. April’s showers brought May flowers, and she brought some to put a vase on Jerome’s kitchen table, a simple bouquet of dandelions and daisies and bunches of buttercups and some odd yellow thing Jerome identified with an encyclopedia as hooked agrimony. Jerome held a buttercup up to Eugene’s throat because he said it meant something if Eugene’s throat turned yellow, then forgot what it meant when Eugene’s throat didn’t turn yellow after all. They called it a trick of the lighting.

As the weather warmed up, Eugene occasionally would take the back door out onto his and Jerome’s small balcony to view the stars and get a little air, even with Irene over at times. Sometimes Jerome and Irene went for walks after dinner, and discussed recent scientific problems with more detail than Eugene would have understood. On one such occasion Jerome picked a flower for Irene, and she tucked it into her hair. When Eugene saw it there was something disapproving in his eyes, but he didn’t comment. Irene threw it in the trash soon after coming back inside, stupidly embarrassed of a lack of neatness when Eugene himself only bothered to fully button or iron his shirts maybe a third of the time.

June rolled around and Irene thought wistfully of picnics. There were other people who would have gone with her. She still often went on dates with other men, and she had a few different girl friends, though none of them as good as she would have liked since at Gattaca, it was all about competition. But for some reason she kept thinking of taking Eugene and Jerome. She wanted to see Eugene with the sun on his face and his hands sinking into grass. As for Jerome, it somehow seemed like the kind of thing he would like. Elite valid or not, there was something earthy about him. She thought he probably knew what kind of sandwiches and drinks to bring to a picnic, whereas she probably would end up bringing last night’s leftovers from dinner and hope for the best. As for lemonade, she had no clue how to make it, which she felt was a staple of picnics. But Jerome had been scheduled for a trip to Titan (finally) and was more and more busy these days, especially during the day. And Eugene still pretty much never left the house, and though according to Jerome he and Eugene did go out for dinner or a movie once in a while, she had never been invited to any of these excursions.

And it was halfway through June when the mission director was murdered.

* * *

 

“Irene,” Jerome greeted her at the door that night. He gave her a brief hug and she kissed both her cheeks. This had become their custom. “Come in. I found out you were coming about five minutes ago so there’s no real dinner yet but…”

“We could call for pizza,” Irene said. “I’m not in the mood for anything very fancy tonight anyhow.”

Jerome seemed relieved. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

He was a mess, and no surprise. There were Feds all over Gattaca, and while Director Josef had assigned Irene to guide Investigator Anton Freeman around the place, not Jerome, it was still wearing on everyone’s nerves. Not to mention the murder itself.

Irene wasn’t the kind of woman who would say “A murder here? I can’t imagine it. All my coworkers are such nice, good people. They would never harm anyone.” (She had, actually, said something similar to the police and the Feds who followed, but she never for a moment meant it.) Gattaca people were some of the coldest blooded lizards this far from the equator. She could easily picture about half of them poisoning the mission director, or even shooting him, and she was sure Jerome could picture it too. He didn’t buy into genoist optimism; people were people.

But it was such a brutal murder. The mission director hadn’t been shot or poisoned. His head had been smashed in with a computer keyboard, spraying a huge radius with blood and brain matter. The forensic investigators said he had apparently been bludgeoned multiple times, even. It was unapologetic violence, violence that didn’t try to hide its own nature. It seemed like the kind of thing that should be against Gattaca company policy. And yet, it had occurred.

Irene wouldn’t have supposed Jerome could be shaken as easily as most people at the company—from her impression of his and Eugene’s situation, they already had experience with violence. But here Jerome was, and judging by the disarray of his outfit and hair, and the flush in his cheeks, he was half drunk already. There went setting a good example for Eugene.

Eugene, on the other hand, was sober as day. But his face was stiff even when he smiled at Irene, and he didn’t offer her a hug.

Dinner was a quiet matter.

“The good thing,” Eugene said. “Is that Jerome’s definitely going up now.”

Irene nodded. “He’s been waiting long enough.”

“Yeah,” Jerome said. He half lifted his hand to his hair, then put it back in his lap. He’d barely eaten a bite, but he was a bit less drunk than he had been earlier. “Titan.”

“Tell us about Titan,” Eugene prodded.

Jerome took a deep breath and recited a description in the tone of voice of a tired parent telling a fairy tale for the hundredth time. Still, his fatigue seemed to fade away as he talked about the possibilities of what might be hiding beneath all that smoke. Eugene always knew how to cheer him up far better than Irene did.

After dinner Jerome stood up abruptly and asked if he could excuse himself. Eugene laughed and said, “It’s your own house, Jerome. Asking me permission?”

Jerome flushed and walked away.

Eugene sighed. “Bit of a mess.”

“So is everyone,” Irene said.

“Not you, though,” Eugene said. “Look at you. Not a strand of hair out of place. Do you ever let it down?”

“You’ve seen me with my hair down.”

“I guess I have. Do you want to go outside?”

The porch, or course, was as far as they went. As far as Eugene ever went when Irene was around.

“Look at those stars, huh,” Eugene said, staring up at the sky. It was admittedly a good night for it. Barely a cloud, and while the moon was an average crescent the stars themselves were out in full force. They were far enough from the city to see them reasonably well, too. Different from the view Irene got in her urban flat.

“They’re beautiful,” Irene said. And today she hadn’t even been doing calculations about the planets, so she could look at them without feeling utterly exhausted.

“A bunch of rocks and fucking balls of gas,” Eugene muttered. “And every time he talks about them he goes fucking insane.”

Obviously he meant Jerome. Irene glanced over at him. He’d never seemed so resentful of Jerome’s job before.

“Good for him, I guess,” Eugene said. “A man with a dream.” He laughed. “Or an obsession. I guess it’s the same thing. You know, I never really thought he’d make it.”

“Why not?” Irene asked. “The Titan mission is fairly standard. He fits the profile, too.”

“I guess so,” Eugene said. “No reason. Still.” He took a drag of a cigarette he had lit before coming out, and blew the smoke in the opposite direction from Irene. The wind carried it towards her anyway.

“He really is a man with a dream,” Irene said. “Watches every single launch go up. I think he’d go crazy if this Titan mission were cancelled. You know, it nearly was.”

“Yeah,” Eugene said. “That wasn’t great.”

She couldn’t ask Jerome, but she could ask Eugene. “Did he kill the mission director?”

Eugene gave her a sharp look.

“Well, he could have,” Irene protested. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t tell. No one liked him anyways.”

“No,” Eugene said. “He didn’t kill the damn mission director. If everyone at Gattaca is as suspicious of him as you are, though, things are going to go just as badly for him. Tell me not everyone thinks Jerome Morrow is a fraud and a crook.”

“No, everyone think Jerome Morrow is an upstanding young man to be commended for his upcoming trip to Titan.”

“Good,” Eugene said. “That’s what he is and that’s what he should be.”

“Are you worried your secret will come out?” Irene said. “Whatever it is.”

“Me? I never worry,” Eugene said. “Now shut up and look at the stars. According to Jerome there’s some asteroid going across the sky tonight…”

“You mean Vesta 12.”

“I mean Vesta 12. And that’s some kind of an event.” He stared up at the sky for about a minute before breaking. “I don’t see it.”

“That’s not until after midnight.”

“I can’t imagine why people stargaze,” Eugene said.

“And yet you do it all the time anyways.”

“I’m just getting ready. Pretty soon I’ll be able to look up and see Jerome. Or at least, that’s the closest I’m going to come to seeing him.”

Irene didn’t know what to say. She squeezed Eugene’s shoulder consolingly, and he at least didn’t seem to mind that. She wasn’t sure it really made him feel better either. Clearing her throat she said, “So he’ll be gone for a whole year.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do while he’s gone? If you need to be in hiding and all that.”

“I’m not sure,” Eugene said. He was still looking at the sky. “Originally, I thought I might travel.”

“Travel?”Irene was surprised. “If there are people looking for you and this is where you’re hiding, do you think travelling is really wise?”

“Is that what Jerome told you?”

Eugene had never said anyone was looking for him. Eugene never spoke about himself at all.

“Is it true?”

Eugene puffed out a nice long breath full of smoke. “My situation…our situation…is complicated, Irene. Explaining it to you would put you in danger, in a way.”

Irene sighed. “Fine. But is it really a good idea for you to go travelling? On your own?”

“It does sound lonely, doesn’t it? But so is an empty house.”

“Only for a year,” Irene said. “I would come visit you. I could bring friends if you think it would be safe.”

“Mm.” Eugene contemplated his cigarette. “Thanks, Irene. I can’t ask you to do something like that.”

“What, you think I’d visit you if I didn’t want to?”

“I think you don’t know what you’re offering.” He shook his head. “You don’t know what I need.”

“What? Is this the whole secret aspect again?”

“No,” Eugene said. “Well, I guess. It is a bit of a secret. But it’s not really the dangerous kind. Just a little stupid.”

“I love all kinds of secrets.”

Eugene sighed, relaxed back into his chair. “Well,” he said. “I love you.”

She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t, instead frowning at his cigarette, which now had a rather long section of white, simmering ash at the end. “Is that supposed to be the secret?” she asked.

“What, did you already know?”

“I guess I didn’t. If you mean you love me as something other than a friend.”

“I mean I look at you and I want to suck you in,” Eugene said. “Just like this.” He dragged a lungful of smoke out of the cigarette, but before he could puff it out she leaned in and pressed her lips against his. Surprised, he let the smoke slip into her mouth instead, and she blew it out in turn.

“You’re very good,” he said dazedly. “You didn’t even cough.” At this he coughed himself, and Irene stroked his shoulder until he was done.

“I used to smoke in college,” she said. “I gave it up because it’s bad for your heart.”

“Your condition?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go back,” Eugene said. Then, licking his lips, he said, “I was distracted. Would you care to do that again, without the smoke this time?”

Irene smiled and pressed her lips against his lips again. This time they actually managed a kiss, though they’d barely been kissing for a moment when Eugene started laughing and had to push Irene off before he went into another coughing fit on her.

“So, my secret wasn’t so stupid,” he said.

“I don’t know. I’ve done a lot of stupid things before too.”

“Really? Irene Cassini, esteemed Gattaca employee, has done things that were not utterly brilliant?”

She squeezed his arm. “Are you really going to go travelling when Jerome leaves?”

“I don’t know. There are some good things here too. Things you can get without being Jerome Morrow.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

They let the silence sit over them for a minute. The stars, which had not been so dazzling before, seemed very vast and frozen, the warm June air empty in a pleasant way, begging to be filled, with words or actions or perhaps just another couple exhalations.

“If you do go travelling, let me know ahead of time,” Irene said. “I have some vacation stored up. We could go somewhere nice. Maybe Europe. You know I’ve never been to Europe.”

“Me neither.”

“Liar.” His British accent was still as thick as ever.

“Aren’t I, though.” He pulled her back in for one more kiss. He lasted a bit longer this time, and Irene was the first to pull away after a slow, pleasurable moment.

They didn’t really settle anything between them that night. Irene stayed late and they talked for quite a while, but mostly of things without consequence and Jerome’s upcoming travels. One thing they did not talk about, even as much as they talked about the leering future and their own feelings, was the mission director’s murder. It was not a deliberate omission. In fact it had entirely slipped Irene’s mind.

She didn’t see Eugene the next couple days, and then came the night she was taking Jerome to a company dinner at a fancy restaurant. She slipped in beforehand to say a couple words to Eugene, but barely had a chance to speak with him. He didn’t seem to mind her going out with Jerome though—told her to have a good evening with him and not be too bored. So at least he wasn’t jealous.

It was the first time Jerome and Irene had been together at a restaurant since their disastrous Basil’s date. They’d gone to company events together once or twice in the past couple months, but only concerts. It was a little awkward—they weren’t great at talking without Eugene there.

They babbled on for a little while about office gossip. Lately it was all very dramatic, considering that a murder had been committed, and only about five days ago. Irene asked him yet again how he felt about leaving so soon, and yet again he more or less dodged the question.

There was no way he could be having regrets.

“Eugene says you kissed him the other night,” Jerome finally said. Instantly he glanced around to check that no one was in overhearing range. That man was paranoid.

“And if I did?”

Jerome smiled. “I thought you said you liked me very much.”

“Oh, are you jealous?”

“Just a little. I didn’t realize you two…” He hummed. “What made you like him?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. He’s funny. And open, until you realize he’s really not. He’s vulnerable and bold, welcoming and then shuttered. I like getting to know him. I just…” She shrugged. “Like him.”

“I like him too,” Jerome said. “So.” He touched her hand. “If you think you love him, you need to be good to him. I need you to take care of him for me while I’m away. Not like he needs to be baby sat, but he might go a little stir crazy, alone in that big house.”

“He won’t be alone.”

“I hope you mean that,” Jerome said. “You know he has secrets.”

“As if you haven’t said that a million times.”

“If you find out, you have to understand.”

“What, did he commit murder? Maybe he murdered the mission director…”

“Irene.”

“I’ll understand, Jerome. You know, you could stand to loosen up a bit.”

It was as she spoke that the doors to the restaurant burst open, revealing practically an army of Feds. And a loud voice from the older man in the hat, the one working with Investigator Freeman (Irene was very familiar with them by now), saying, “This is the police, please stay where you are.”

She barely noticed Jerome had pulled her up from the table until they were already running, scrambling through the panicked crowd towards the back exit. She didn’t ask why he felt the need to escape. Maybe there was no reason, and he was doing it just to be contrary.

They made it to the back door. Of course there was a detective standing there. The Feds wouldn’t just let everyone run out of there helter-skelter.

“The lady needs some air,” Jerome said. He braced her back with one hand for a moment, as though she really were dizzy. She wasn’t—at this point she was too flooded with adrenalin for that, and at any rate she felt well enough this evening—but she allowed him to do so, and then allowed him to step in front of her in turn, closer to the detective.

“You need to go back inside,” the detective said.

“Oh, well then—”

Bam.

Jerome’s fist was a solid impact on the detective’s face, sending him stumbling backwards. Bam. Bam. The gut, then the face again, and then he grabbed Irene’s wrist and once again they were running.

“Where are we going?” Irene gasped, but he just ran faster. “I can’t do this, my heart…”

He pulled her into a small nook, shadowed and unnoticeable. There was a commotion down the street at the restaurant, and Irene wondered how much of it was just the Feds and how much had been caused by Jerome.

“I can’t run like that,” she murmured. “I’m not supposed to…”

He squeezed her gently. “You just did, and you’re fine. Your limits aren’t always what they tell you.”

Sure, but he’d still risked hers. “Why did we…”

“Vincent!”

The voice calling down the street was Det. Anton Freeman’s, no mistake. Irene was silent. Jerome was as well.

“VINCENT! VINCENT!”

The screaming continued for probably a solid minute before it died down. The detective’s throat had gotten sore, probably. You couldn’t go on yelling forever.

“Who’s Vincent?” she muttered to Jerome.

As she might have expected, he did not provide an answer.

* * *

 

The next day could have been a calm one. The bustle to get Jerome’s launch prepared was mostly over now, only last minute preparations left which neither she nor Jerome were involved in. Jerome was coming in, but only for basic tasks to finish up paperwork and say his farewells.

But before the day could even get started, Irene found herself cornered by none other than Detective Anton Freeman himself.

“Detective,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen Jerome Morrow.”

One more day, and Jerome would be off planet and out of legal reach. One more day, and none of his secrets or entanglements could catch up with him. One more day, and the universe was never that kind.

But if Jerome didn’t have the universe on his side, he still had Irene.

“He’s home sick. Pre-launch jitters. Very common.”

She managed to slip away from him as he asked someone else if they’d seen Jerome and fled to the gate, where she saw Jerome about to check in with the finger prick machine. Just in time, then.

“You’re looking sick, Jerome,” she said pointedly. “Go home.”

Thank God he trusted her enough to get out without more explanation because otherwise he would have been spotted by Detective Freeman, who caught up to her within moments. And asked her, since she seemed to be close to Jerome, if she would maybe show him the way to Jerome’s house?

Irene smiled. “Of course.”

He let her take her car.

As she drove the familiar route back from work to Jerome’s house, she considered what she should do. Possibly it was just another round of questioning. But Detective Freeman himself had been at the restaurant last night, and today he was asking for Jerome who had run…he could probably get arrested for punching a federal agent, if nothing else. And of course there would be something else.

The most convenient course of action would be to murder Detective Freeman. Irene dismissed the idea after a few minutes of serious thought. Practical or not, she had no idea how to commit murder. If it came down to it, Jerome was a better man for that job, even if he hadn’t murdered the mission director. Though if it would help to protect him and Eugene Irene would probably help him hide the body.

Really, she liked them very much.

They pulled up to the building and Detective Freeman strode ahead of her up the stairs. When Irene joined him on the landing he was still pushing the button to ring the doorbell, though he paused for a minute when she got up there. No response.

Better if Jerome hadn’t gotten home, perhaps. Detective Freeman would keep looking for him but the confrontation wouldn’t take place. And with the determined look on his face, he had definite plans that went far beyond a simple questioning. And he was getting annoyed.

He pressed his finger down on the button again. He must have held it for more than a minute before releasing.

Irene could have easily broken them in, but that wasn’t something one told an FBI agent. Instead she said, “Guess he must have gone out. Maybe he got better.” Because either Jerome was a slow driver and hadn’t gotten home (in which case they had better leave before he did) or he had grown some actual common sense and was not going to answer the door. It was a good idea which would crumble into ash if Detective Freeman got a search warrant. But he might not be that determined, even with the way his jaw was set. And at least he would need to demonstrate good cause.

Detective Freeman only pressed down on the bell again, three brief pushes. But this time there was an actual response.

From the small speaker, a voice floated out. “Hello?”

It came out like a gasp. But even breathless, Irene could easily recognize it. Eugene.

What the hell was he doing?

“This is the FBI. We have questions for Mr. Jerome Morrow.”

“Come in.”

There was another buzz and with the door unlocked, Detective Freeman swung it open forcefully and went in, Irene trailing behind him. Though after a few steps, she almost froze.

Eugene was sitting on a chair near the top of the stairs with his legs and arms crossed and a welcoming smile on his face.

Eugene was sitting on a chair near the top of the stairs.

Eugene was not on the bottom floor.

“More questions?” he said to Detective Freeman. “How dull. Irene, come here and give me a kiss, hm?”

And mechanically, she did walk to his side. But even as they kissed, brief but affectionate, she couldn’t help but feel a vague sense of dissociation. Eugene wasn’t supposed to be on the top floor. Sure, he’d answered the buzzer—and logically she knew you could only do that on the top floor—but he wasn’t supposed to be there. He lived on the bottom floor, and occasionally on the balcony. Apart from there he existed in concept but not physically and especially, especially not in front of other people.

Other people weren’t supposed to know about Eugene. A federal agent was watching her and Eugene kiss.

She straightened up again.

“Jerome Morrow?” Detective Freeman asked.

“That’s me,” Eugene said with a smile and a nod. “What do you want?”

He was being stupid. All Detective Freeman would have to do would be to ask him to stand up and it would fall apart in seconds.

“I have a few questions.”

“More of those?” Eugene made a convincingly disgusted face considering he hadn’t been asked any questions by the FBI because he was not, in fact, a Gattaca employee named Jerome Morrow. “I thought you were about done. Well, go on then.”

He would know the answers to any questions, Irene realized. After all, he knew Jerome so well. And Jerome had told him all the details.

But it wouldn’t matter. Because Detective Freeman was bringing out a needle to draw blood, and the small tool to analyze its DNA. With a neutral look at Eugene he said, “Just to be certain.”

This, Irene thought, was the point for Eugene to admit he wasn’t Jerome Morrow. Or alternatively to bring out his gun, which was nowhere to be seen. Why, at a crisis moment like this, didn’t he have his gun?

But Eugene offered his arm with nothing more than a roll of his eyes. He didn’t even flinch as the needle went in—Irene was probably standing more still than he was. And she had always considered herself to have a good poker face.

The blood went into the machine. Which gave a satisfied little beep.

“Jerome Morrow,” the screen read. That familiar picture of Jerome with the details written beside it.

Irene stared.

Detective Freeman’s jaw was slack.

“What,” Eugene said. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Detective Freeman seemed to regain his senses. He strode briskly towards the stairs and was halfway down them when his phone rang. He picked it up. Listened.

And then he abruptly switched directions and left the house even more quickly than he had come in. Practically running.

He slammed the front door shut behind him.

Irene now directed her stare at Eugene, who was smirking but looked a little nervous. Then, footsteps on the stairwell, and Jerome emerged.

So he had been home this whole time after all.

“Hello, Jerome,” Eugene said, glancing over his shoulder.

And Jerome said, “Hello, Jerome.”

Blood taken from the inner arm, straight from the vein—there was no way to fake that. Jerome had always said they had a secret. Jerome, who acted too perfect even for a valid, who longed for the stars with a passion that seemed out of place in someone who had been given the world just because he was born with his genes. Jerome…who apparently was a borrowed ladder. Which meant Jerome wasn’t even his name.

“Vincent?” she said, looking at Jerome.

Jerome waved.

“Jerome?” she said, looking down at Eugene.

Eugene winced. “I still prefer Eugene. It’s my middle name.”

All Irene could do was shake her head.

“You fuckers.”

* * *

 

They helped Eugene down the stairs as Jerome explained, for the most part, how the whole charade had gotten started. Some mutual contact named German…Eugene unable to work because of his paraplegia…a dream of the stars and a partnership formed. And a whole lot of work.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Well, eventually.”

“Were you really, though?”

“I would have had to when we got married,” Eugene said. “You would have wanted to do it legally and I technically don’t have an identity right now…”

Irene shook her head. “Arrogant.” But as she settled him back into a formerly overturned wheelchair, she kissed his cheek.

“I’m going to have to talk to that detective,” Jerome said. When Eugene sent him a questioning look (because of course he didn’t have to, he’d be off the planet tomorrow and wouldn’t have to deal with anyone bothering him, FBI or not), he added, “He’s my brother.”

The plot thickened.

Eugene sputtered something about keeping secrets (which was rich coming from him) and Jerome just shook his head and muttered some excuse.

The day had only just begun and Irene really should have returned to work but like Jerome, there wasn’t all that much left for her to do today. So instead she spent the rest of the day learning all the secrets Jerome and Eugene hadn’t been willing to tell her before. It was almost humorous how willing they were to tell her before, tales of illegal enterprise spilling out of their lips without even a question on her side. Well, she supposed she would have liked to brag about it too.

It was definitely a feat, tricking the likes of Gattaca.

Finally Jerome headed out. He said he was going to find his brother. Irene wished him luck. Though she didn’t know much about his family background still she could tell their relationship was a bit rough, and Detective Freeman wasn’t that friendly of a character no matter your relation.

And Eugene and Irene were left alone.

“So you’re Jerome Morrow,” she said.

Eugene sighed. “I suppose I am.”

“Damn,” she said. “Here I thought I was done with being in love with him.”

“You were in love with Jerome?”

“I told you I did some stupid things.”

“Oh God. Of course you were.”

“Shut up.”

They kissed, and this time it lasted far longer than they could have let it last in front of Detective Freeman, or even in front of Jerome. Irene felt something inside herself loosen. Eugene was Eugene, whatever his genetic identity. That would not change.

“I thought the Mafia was after you,” she said.

“No, we’re quite friendly with the Mafia.”

“I suppose the government is worse,” Irene said. “But really. Jerome implied that it had something to do with your disability, too.”

“Well, if I hadn’t broken my back, I would never have agreed to any of it. So in the end I suppose it does.”

“But how did you break your back?” Irene asked. She wouldn’t push if he didn’t answer, but since today was a day of revelations…

“Car accident,” Eugene said.

Irene gave him a long look. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Something big, probably important. But she was used to secrets by now, and if it was something that would matter to her, he would tell her eventually.

After a pause, Eugene said “If I don’t go travelling while Jerome is away, you should move in.”

“Should I?”

“We’d have a good reason for Jerome’s house to still be using electricity and heating. And you wouldn’t have to pay rent for your apartment.” He paused. “Of course, if it’s too soon…”

Eugene alone in this big house was really an awful idea, no matter how much she had already planned to visit. “I’ve always been fond of your place,” she said. “Does this mean I inherit Jerome’s room?”

“If he doesn’t mind. We’ll have to ask him before he leaves.”

When Jerome got in, at fuck o’clock in the morning with his hair and skin and clothes plastered with salt and sea stench, he said he didn’t mind at all. He also said that he was still better at swimming than his brother. He didn’t bother to elaborate.

When Irene asked Eugene what that was supposed to mean, he just shrugged. “The more you know about Jerome, the less you really understand.”

“Really, because I think the whole invalid thing explains a whole…”

“Are you ever going to stop harping on that?”

“I only found out today.”

“Hours ago, woman.”

“I thought you’d gotten on the wrong side of a crime boss.”

“Me? I’m harmless.”

“You pointed a gun at me.”

“I wouldn’t have actually shot you!”

Jerome emerged from upstairs now dripping from shower water, and smelling considerably better. “What are you two arguing about?”

“Oh, nothing,” Eugene said. “So you swim better than your brother, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jerome said. He grinned. Walking to the kitchen, he poured a small glass of wine, then, frowning, handed it to Irene. “Can’t drink before launch.” Frowning at Eugene, he said, “You’ll make sure Eugene doesn’t drink, right?”

Eugene said, “Oh, come on.”

“Just on special occasions,” Irene said. She took a sip of the wine. “Does this mean I’m doing the celebratory drinking for all of us?”

“Guess so.”

In that case, she would have to get absolutely wasted.

It was past midnight, probably closer to sunrise, when Jerome touched her shoulder and woke her from something of a daze. Eugene had vanished—probably in bed already. She had lost track of time.

“You should go home,” Jerome said. “You need to be at work tomorrow. You’ll see me off.”

He helped her to her feet, but she was still wobbly. “I don’t think I should be driving.”

“Probably not,” Jerome admitted. “Take the couch?”

Sounded good. She curled up on it easily, and Jerome brought her a blanket. Her car would still be here in the morning, and she could go straight to work. Pretty much everyone already thought she and Jerome were dating, anyhow.

Jerome sat on the edge of the sofa. “I should get to bed, too, I guess.”

Really he should.

“It’s nice seeing you with Eugene,” he said. “I guess a little bittersweet. I could have had this.” He stroked Irene’s hair, gentle.

“Don’t get cocky,” Irene murmured. Then, smiling, she said, “You know you have me anyways. I’ll be here for you.”

“Waiting when I come home, the both of you,” Jerome said. “I’m glad.” He shook his head. “I barely even want to go to space.”

“But you still do.”

“I still do.” He laughed.

“Go to bed,” she said, and he left. And she went to sleep, thinking only of how nice it would be on the balcony at nights, knowing Jerome was up there with the stars. And how nice it would be to sit there with him and Eugene when he got back and had even more stories to tell.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Small Fandom Big Bang. That means it's been in the works for quite a while, so hopefully y'all enjoyed it.  
> My fics in the past have mostly focused on Eugene, with a small side of Vincent. I hope that in this fic I focused a bit more on Irene, though I think my Eugene-centric bias is blatantly obvious. I honestly really wish Eugene and Irene interacted more in canon! Their one scene together was so excellent, but it's clear they never meet again, since Eugene commits suicide soon after. I want so many AU fics about them tbh...fics where Eugene lives and they become friends post-canon, and of course fics like this where they know each other while canon takes its course. And of course I just want more fics where Eugene lives in general...  
> Anyways, Irene being nosy af is canon so don't tell me she wouldn't do something like this. She would. She's definitely curious about Jerome and she has not the best sense of boundaries. Besides, this is noir-verse. Who cares about legality here? THERE ARE MYSTERIES TO BE SOLVED. And Jerome is one shady dude.  
> Art post to this fic is linked below, so go check it out! Comments and kudos would also be much appreciated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Housebreaking and Hooked Agrimony"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559986) by [Gryph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryph/pseuds/Gryph)




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